Very likely you will disapprove highly of what I have done—I wonder? You may, perhaps, think I have done it just in a fit of childish petulance because my father locked me in when I wanted to go to a ball of which he did not approve. Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. Blank it was, except for a gate near the bridgehead. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. You have all the earmarks of a fugitive from justice.
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